A Feast For Crows
by theScarlettWeasel
Summary: Your face is as mean as your life as been. A punk retelling of The Phantom of the Opera set in 1977. Chapter Thirteen.
1. The Opera Ghost Really Existed

_The ghost in the Paris Opera existed._

_Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, even though he gave himself every appearance of a real ghost, a true phantom. _

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux

Breathe. Focus. Measure. The steady click click of the razor blade against the glass table-top is the beginning and the end. Get the white lines straight. Ignore the muffled wails and screams through the brick walls. None of it matters, nothing except for the task at hand. Measure out the Charlie. Can't go on stage if yer not high as a kite.

Darren hates this noise, well, fuck him. Let him sigh like me mum and walk across the room and scowl at the wall, he thinks I've lost the plot and sold my meager soul to the white powder before me. What does he know? Nothing. Stupid fuckwit, son of a cozzer.

I don't need to quit, nothing _to_ quit. I only take a hit before a show for my nerves. I'm a nervy guy. Can't go on stage shaking like a bleeding Chihuahua, makes for a bad show, and it's all about the show.

There. Two perfect white lines showing me the way. Hello, my lovelies; Erik missed you. I'm not a junkie. I can stop anytime. Fuck you, Darren, stop looking at me like that; you know I hate being gawked at.

Now to inhale. Just need a bit a paper…Shite, it appears I have forgotten a critical step; that's not like me. I need some nicker. Darren's a lost cause, the fuckin' wanker prolly nicked the fiver I had set out.

"Jules, give us a tenner." Good ol' Jules, he's a right diamond geezer, a true mate. He'll help a friend out.

The scrawny weasel lifts his lip in a sneer. "Why would I do that, Carver?"

Bastard son of a whore! The fuckin' nonce! I'll kill him! Stupid muppet would sooner sell his father to the devil than help anyone.

"Because you owe me five times at least, now give us the fuckin' tenner " Both Darren and Bucket look at me in surprise. Didn't know I could snarl like that. Don't get between a man and his coke; I'll lick it off the table if I have to.

Jules slides to his feet with all the grace of a dead swine and reluctantly hands over the crumpled nicker. "Thanks Bucket."

The fluorescent light of the room makes Jules' oily skin shine hotly; his acne is sparkling as he scuttles back to his seat whining. "It's pronounced 'Boo-_kay_'." He repeats that to himself like a mantra of self-importance.

He doesn't matter though. Nothing else matters except getting this damn bill flat enough to roll. Nothing except hitting that spike, getting that buzz. Not a damn thing, not even music.

Wait, what?

That's not right. My hand starts to tremble as it hovers over the two white stripes. When did that thought arrive? It's not true; music is life. It's _everything _

Can feel my breath come shakily into my lungs as I look back at Darren. He's right, the fuckin' bastard is right. No, no, he can't be. I'm no junkie. I only take a hit before shows.

We've been playing a lot of shows lately.

Shite.

Fuck, I've gotta stop. I can stop. The screams from the crowd outside get fifty times louder as one of the limp-wristed managers stumbles in and looks around with wide eyes. He stares at me last, and longest.

I hate when people stare. Like maybe I'll just take the mask off if they look at me long enough. Feels like my skin is going to crawl off. Bastards should just mind their own fuckin' business. I should be used to it. I should quit being a fuckin' pansy about the mask; more people stare because of it. So you're ugly, so what? So what if your sister ran screaming when they first took the bandages off? It doesn't matter that you couldn't face yourself in a mirror for seven years after the last surgery.

_So what?_

Andrew, or Ricky, can never fuckin' tell the difference or be bothered to care, is now staring at the accusing white lines before me. Ricky, or Andrew, leans over to Darren; "He high?"

Darren gives a half-assed shrug and doesn't look at me. Christ, he's the only person who pisses me off when he doesn't look at me. "Not yet," he mutters and looks back at the wall. Fuck you Darren. Fuck you for making me give a damn.

Andrew, oh hell it's prolly Ricky, snorts in distaste and lets one hand flap through the air in what should have been a dismissive wave. "Just so long as the freak doesn't OD on my stage." Valiant attempt to sound tough there; really good try. Too bad that feminine lisp makes it impossible for Ricky to frighten anyone except good Catholics. Still, receiving nothing except contempt from a man who by all accounts would have burned beside me on the stake sets my teeth on edge, and I'm out for blood.

"Listen here, you school-boy chasing, skirt-wearing, cock-smoking bastard." I don't raise my voice. Don't have to. The growl of it is threat enough and all eyes are on me. "The day that I let some Perry Cuomo tell me that I am a freak is the day that I start taking it up the ass " Almost yelling now, but damned if I care.

_Christ_, all I want is to be left alone

Ricky, aw fuck it is Andrew afterall, is almost literally hiding behind Darren, who looks ready to knock me down. And just like that the anger is gone. Fuck. Ass.

This isn't what I wanted to become. Some junkie threatening harmless poofs, oh brilliant choice of existance Erik, you fuckwit.

God, what's the point anymore? Why are you still here? Why don't you just give up? The sorrow is sharp and familiar; like a piercing that takes too long to heal, or the needle buzzing against my forearm as it wrote that same question three years ago. 'Cur etiam hic es?'

The answer to that question sure as hell wasn't cocaine when I first asked myself. Have I fallen so far?

A quick glance from the charlie to Darren to the terrified queer behind him confirms that I have fallen that far. Gotta get everything back in order.

"Come on, Erik." Darren is talking to me, his hands up defensively and his voice low, like I'm a cornered pit bull. Being looked at like that takes all the fight out of me and I'm back in my seat staring at the drugs before me before I even think about doing it.

Darren's still talking. "The crowd's getting rough," he tells me. "We just have to do one more show and then we can rest for a while."

Rest. I need it. Christ, I just want to lay down and sleep. It would be so easy to give up.

Pressure on my shoulder tells me that my dear friend has suddenly moved to my side. "The show must go on, Erik."

Damn straight it has too. And the short skinny of it is that I can't stand to go on stage sober. What to do?

It isn't a hard choice.

I lean forward and take the hit quickly; moving to my feet with a practiced sniff as my heart beat quickens.

"Well, we mustn't let them down," I tell him with wolfish grin as the energy fills my veins. Can't help but bounce on the balls of my feet as I stand next to him. I'm ready. Let's go. Time's a-wasting, and we're only gonna die sooner.

Bucket's on his feet and out the door without a word and the poof is fast on his heels, glancing over his shoulder.

Darren's at my side, face stern, making him look far more like his father than he'd ever admit. "Ricky's gonna think yer a homophobe now, man." He doesn't mention the Charlie because he knows he doesn't have to, and he knows I'll deck him if he does.

My shoulder's bounce in a careless shrug as I cross the room to the door. "He shouldn't flatter himself."

Darren gives a short laugh as he walks behind me. "Yes, because you hate everyone equally."

I pull the door open and grin maniacally as that wall of noise and heat hits me. "Damn skippy, now let's go, Kunta Kinte before the Massa' brings out the whip."

I'm stopped suddenly by his hand on my shoulder, looking back he gives me a charming crocodile smile. "I know I left the door for that wide open, but you ever go there again and I'll kick your scrawny ass." Good ol' Darren.

The instant I step on the stage, a jolt of power goes through every inch of me. The crowd surges forward like some living wave and screams for me.

Bucket's already behind his drums by the time Darren pulls on his bass and I get my guitar over my shoulder.

This is right. This is the moment that I live for. This surge of adrenaline and power, this knowledge that I have total control over everyone before me, it's intoxicating. But maybe that's the coke talking.

Without a word, Darren and I hammer out the opening chords and the crowd howls in recognition. I've never seen the Roxy packed so tight; a lot of lads are going to go home tonight bragging about their bruises. This is why Andrew and/or Ricky puts up with my bullshit.

Every person in here has come to see me. And it's not arrogance on my part that makes me say that. They want to see the mask. It's all people talk about. 'Did you hear about that guy in that band with that mask? He's a fuckin' maniac '

"_I'm having trouble trying to sleep  
I'm counting sheep but running out  
As time ticks by  
And still I try  
No rest for cross tops in my mind  
One my own...here I go..."_

The air is heavy with the scent of sweat and marijuana. Slick, hot bodies pressing together as they crash against each other in time with the pulse of the music.

"_My eyes feel like they're gonna bleed  
Dried up and bulging out my skull  
My mouth is dry  
My face is numb  
Fucked up and spun out in my room  
On my own... here we go"_

I can feel the chords in my bones as they vibrate out and shake the building. So much noise, so many people. I could never face this without being high. The coke sings in my veins and in these brief moments on stage, I feel truly alive and in touch with the music.

Darren's eyes are shut tight as he holds his bass, his shoulders tense as he plays. He understands; he feels it too.

"_My mind is set on overdrive  
The clock is laughing in my face  
A crooked spine  
My senses dulled  
Passed the point of delerium  
On my own... here we go"_

Somewhere miles behind me, Bucket's a maniac on the drums, his skinny arms flying.

The crowd is singing along, but my own voice soars above them, and I know I'm not gonna be able to talk by the end of this set. But I don't care. I'd bleed for this music and I have in the past.

Nothing else matters except the music.

And the Charlie.

Fuck I can't drown out that needling voice even when I'm wasted. When did everything get out of control? I didn't always need a spike to give the courage to get onstage. I haven't written anything new in weeks. I feel numb when I'm not high.

Shite.

"_My eyes feel like they're gonna bleed  
Dried up and bulging out my skull  
My mouth is dry  
My face is numb  
Freaked up and spun out in my room  
On my own... here we go"_

This ends tomorrow. I'm tired of being stagnate.

Why are you still here?


	2. The New Maguerite

_Had they known about her hidden genius? If so, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she herself hidden it? Strangely, she was not known to have a teacher._

_All this was inexplicable._

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

"Mandi, I look like a whore!"

Amanda Geary raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and smirked. "Christy, we are trying to go out and seduce some young, hard-bodied punks. Looking like a proper whore is precisely the point!"

Christine Dawson scowled and made a valiant last attempt at pulling the hem of her dress down, which only succeeded in exposing more of her bust. "Ok, I can understand the whore dress, the whore make-up, and even the ripped leggings," she pointed at the various items as she spoke. "But what's so sexy about Doc Martins?"

Mandi glanced briefly down at the scuffed up pair of boots that Christy was borrowing and then held up two cherry-red lacquered nails. "Two reasons. First, it's a required part of the punk image; second, you'll be glad you've got them when you see the floor of the Roxy."

"Speaking of that, why are we even here? You're mother's going to absolutely eppy when she finds out!" Christine took a step closer to her friend as three leather-clad boys no older than sixteen openly leered at her as they walked past.

Mandi gave one of her trademarked high-lilting laughs and tossed her hair, the streaks of pink and green flashing in the streetlights. "Mum knows exactly where we are! She was glad to let us go!"

Christine's jaw dropped in shock. "What? Doesn't she have any idea the trouble we could get into?" She stopped when she realized she was repeating her own strict mother verbatim.

Her friend gave a sympathetic laugh. "Don't fret Christy, Erik and Darren will take care of us! Now come on! We're already late!" She grabbed Christine's hand and dragged her forward.

Christine hated the club instantly. Filthy, grimy bodies on all sides surrounded her and more than once Christy could have sworn that some hormonal teen copped a feel as he slid by.

Mandi had called this a concert. Apparently, the two boys she was moving in with were a part of a famous local punk band, and she had gotten tickets and backstage passes for her birthday. Christine would be damned if she could hear any music though.

She leaned close to Mandi and had to scream to get her attention. "So where's this music you mentioned?"

She was rewarded with a blank stare for a moment while Mandi worked out what she had said. "We have to get closer!" she replied grabbing Christine's arm and pulled her through the throng of people.

"Get CLOSER!" That didn't make sense. How was the ruckus of screams and pounding, ambiguous bass-line going to improve by getting closer?

Christine wasn't aware that they had traveled the length of the club, but suddenly, she was standing in front of the stage. None of the three men were playing, and she was grateful for a brief lull in the noise. Then Mandi started screaming again.

"OY! Darren! Erik!" She waved her hand like a maniac and after a moment the bassist glanced over and beamed. Christine judged the handsome black boy to be in his late twenties as he strode across the stage and knelt at the edge.

"Where the fuck have you been Mandi?" he called with an open, likable grin. "We've just about finished the set!"

She flashed him an apologetic grin and punched Christine lightly in the arm. "I know Darren, I'm sorry, but _someone_ couldn't get her ass in gear!"

Christine grimaced and rubbed her arm; Darren gave her a good-natured wink and then nodded back over his shoulder towards another member of the band who had his back to him. "Erik'll be glad to see you. You girls coming backstage after the set?"

"It's a dead cert!"

She heard Mandi answer and saw Darren move away out of the corner of her eye, but her attention remained focused on the boy he had indicated. Erik. He was tall and thin almost to the point of scrawny, but his bare back was muscular and lean. Dressed only in a tattered kilt and a pair of broken-in, black Chuck-Taylors, he cut an attractive figure. Except for the massive tattoo that covered the upper half of his back.

Christine couldn't see it clearly from her position; she thought she could make out two winged figures on each of his shoulder blades. She watched him toss his head back as he drained a bottle of water, the muscles of his arm clearly defined as he flung the empty bottle away. The band of flames the circled his left bicep seemed like an overt attempt at being tough, and Christine prepared her ears for the worst as the boy turned and approached the mic.

He was not what she had expected. Well, that wasn't entirely true. While the pierced nipples made her want to cross her arms protectively over her own chest, neither they nor the silver labret just below the center of his thin lips particularly impressed her. His jaw length straight black hair wasn't too unique, and the shock of crimson that fell down over the left side of his face seemed downright tame in comparison to some of the hairstyles around her. The mask was special though. Its grinning white visage covered all of his face except for his mouth and chin. The effect of the savage leather grin contrasting the tight-lipped frown was unsettling, and Christine fought down a shiver as a spot light caught his mismatched blue and gold eyes and made them glow briefly as he reached the edge of the stage. There was a sense of weariness around the corners of his lips and along the line of his shoulders that made her wonder if he was in his thirties.

Christine jumped violently when Mandi screamed again. "Erik! Down here!"

And then suddenly he was a young man as he glanced down and spotted Mandi; his eyes brightening and then narrowing slightly as his lips split into a wide, toothy grin. Erik looked briefly at Christine before giving Mandi a roguish wink and turning back to the audience.

He licked his lips and then sneered at the crowd. "Alright, you ungrateful, motherless wankers, this is the last fuckin' song!"

Christine frowned at his language, and then wondered why she was surprised. He was only some punk-kid after all. Erik pulled a sleek, black and white bodied Stratocaster over his shoulders.

The audience surged forward like a filthy wave; nearly crushing Christine and Mandi against the barrier keeping the stage clear of over-eager fans. Erik's voice rose easily over the din. "And this song is for a very dear friend of mine, and if you don't like it, you can bugger off!"

Mandi suddenly squealed and clutched at Christine's arm. "That's my song! He's playing my song!"

Before she could reply, the opening chords overwhelmed Christine. It was loud, ragged, and not subtle in the least, but there was something intangible, beneath the growling chords that drew her inexorably in to the rhythmic push and pull of the crowd.

_I know where you go when you want to fall  
Why do you want to be broken?  
I know where you go when you want to fall  
Yes your friends they tell me everything_

Erik played the guitar with his entire body. As his fingers flew over the strings, his shoulders curled over while he pressed the body of the instrument into his flat belly. His entire frame was tight with energy as he snarled into the mic.

_Yes I know where you go  
Yes I know what you do  
Yes I know the awful things you say  
And who you say them to  
Yes I know where you go  
Yes I know what you do_

She leaned back over to Mandi; her eyes riveted on Erik. He did cut an attractive form; eyes shut tightly as the heavy rhythms of the song poured from him. "Quite the singer," she commented. She would almost swear that Erik had been trained at some point in his life. His voice was an exercise in contrasts; tightly controlled as it rolled smoothly over the melody, and in the same strong breath it was a raw wail that chilled her to the bone. She was irrationally reminded of an ancient tapestry she had seen on a childhood trip to a museum. Erik's voice was larger than life, inconceivable in its intricacies, rich with profound beauty, and coming apart at the seams.

_I know how you feel you get crazy inside  
They say it runs in the family  
I know just how you feel when you get crazy inside  
Your mom she said that you are just like me_

Christine leaned over to Mandi, and tugged on her wrist. "He wrote this for you?" There were tears in Mandi's eyes as she turned to face her.

_I can see it in your eyes  
I can see it in your shaky hands  
Guess I think you think I'm stupid  
You don't think I understand  
Guess I see you when I see myself  
When I was a younger man_

"He wrote this song after I went through a huge depression a few years ago!" she explained trying to keep her voice steady. "I had stopped eating and no one could get me to listen!" She turned back and stared adoringly at Erik.

_When you were a child  
You were happy and free  
You were my reason to live  
I would die when you smiled at me  
I can still see you  
I remember you painting  
Sunflowers in your room_

"Erik saved my life, Christy!" There was no denying the sincerity in Mandi's eyes.

Christine looked back at Erik, feeling strangely grateful. She hadn't known Mandi then, and couldn't quite imagine the bubbly, generous, smiling girl she'd gotten to know over the past three months letting anything faze her optimistic attitude.

_I see you run around in circles  
I see you digging your own hole  
I see you fight the fights you just can't win  
I see you losing self-control  
What it does to me deep down inside  
I hope you will never know_

Her eyes lazily traced the appealing lines of Erik's body, down his sleek, glistening biceps and forearms to the sharp lines of his muscled calves. Her lower belly began to burn as she watched him writhe and slide his guitar along his stomach while he sang; his thin lips almost caressing the mic as his voice became a gritty wail.

_When you were a child you were happy and free  
You were my reason to live  
I would die when you smiled at me  
I can still see you painting flowers on the wall  
I remember you happy, I remember it all_

The chorus was smooth and catchy, Christine starting singing along without thought. The entire crowd was roaring, and she let herself fall into the words.

When she glanced back, she realized he was staring at her as he sang.

_When you were a child you were happy and free  
You were my reason to live  
I would die when you smiled at me  
I can still see you, I remember you painting  
Sunflowers in your room  
Sunflowers in your room  
Sunflowers in your room_

The blush she had hated since she was old enough to be aware of it bloomed across her cheeks. Why was he looking at her? He couldn't possibly have heard her voice over the whine of the speakers and screams of the crowd. His harlequin eyes were deeply unnerving and impossible to read; one was a clear, cool, welcoming blue that drew her in, and the other was a harsh, almost unnatural golden amber that shut her out. She wanted to hold his gaze and hide her eyes in the same moment and was torn by the two desires.

Why wouldn't he look away? She shifted uncomfortably against the push and pull of the crowd, her hand rising to cover her mouth in an unconscious, defensive motion. His control over the guitar never faltered, and his voice was the same powerful wail, but his attention was all on her. It went beyond simply uncomfortable, or freaky; she felt like he could see all of her secrets and fears.

And then he blinked, and the moment was broken. He flashed her a brief grin and looked at Mandi, who had her arms in the air as she swayed along with the sweaty mass of people.

_All I want to remember  
Pretty pictures on the wall  
I remember you happy, I remember it all  
All I want to remember  
Sunflowers in your room  
Sunflowers in your room  
Sunflowers in your room_

The final chord hung in the air for one breathless, reverent moment the crowd was silent. Erik looked suddenly more than simply a young man. He looked out of the audience with a sedate predatory gaze, his shoulders hanging loosely, his hair falling into his face. There was something indescribably primal about him.

And then the crowd exploded. Instantly bodies pressed in on all sides and Christine struggled for breath. She clung desperately to Mandi's arm as her friend dragged her through the throng of screaming teenagers and spiked hair.

The band had already fled the stage and disappeared through the nondescript door in the back wall. She and Mandi fell in step with a chain of girls; each one trying to expose more skin than the last. Christine frowned in distaste as another flip of badly feathered hair caught her in the face. Honestly, if that chippy didn't quit shaking her head soon, then she would get Mandi to do something rash.

They finally reached the door and through some careful wriggling, muffled swearing, and strategic pulling of hair, managed to maneuver into the backstage area.

Mandi turned to Christine with a wolfish grin, "Let's have some fun!"


	3. The Mysterious Reason

This chapter is dedicated to LeChatNoir for her birthday; RAAA CHAT!

And as always mad props and love for my beta, Erik.

* * *

_None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom or indifference over his inward joy._

_In Paris, our lives are one masked ball…_

From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

He never used to party. He used to hate them. But with the coke still singing in his veins, Erik sat like a king and smiled charmingly at the small harem around him.

He loved women, and he loved them even more when they draped themselves shamelessly across his thighs and couch arms and lavished him with affectionate kisses and touches.

Erik regarded the women through half-lidded eyes; none of them were of any real interest. None of them were putting their mouths to good use, and the sight of a total of eight fake tits was not a turn on in his mind. _Fuckin' plastic surgeons, they like to pretend they're gods. Think everyone should bow to them…fuckin' bastards…_

His hand clenched the frayed end of the sofa; these were not women around him, these were painted dolls with plastic bodies and hollow heads. There wasn't a single one that he gave a flying fuck about aside from how quickly he could get them to scream his name. But he wasn't so noble as to turn away prime pussy when it came calling.

Still, what was the point of this lifestyle? He hadn't dreamed of being some stoner punk in a dead-end job.

Dammit, now he was over thinking things again, and at twice the speed of normal against because of the Charlie. Christ, why couldn't he just be _normal?_

He needed to get laid. He needed that affection, that total acceptance that comes in those precious moments of skin against skin. The cruel, dirty, spiteful world disappeared when he bedded a woman. He had to hear her whisper his name in total bliss; it made him feel normal.

Still, no matter how high or horny he was, he wasn't desperate, and beyond that he made it a rule not to fuck any girl that looked like a living petri dish of whatever STD was in vogue.

And then, just as quickly as the depression had hit him, it was gone and Erik was suddenly bored and restless. He shifted in the chair and looked around the room for Darren. After a moment, he spotted him across the room chatting up a face on a stick. Seeing that Darren was more entertained than he was, was not something that Erik was going to take lightly.

* * *

Christine had been prepared for the worst, and all of her fears were quickly realized as Mandi darted off in search of liquor and drugs and left her leaning defensively against one filthy wall. She looked fearfully around the room and was fairly certainly that she could spot each of the seven deadly sins being exercised with abandon in the various crowded, shadowy areas of the room.

Luckily she was able to discourage any and all hopeful boys that approached her with her patented 'deer-in-headlights-oh-dear-God-please-don't-hurt-me' slack jawed expression. She'd perfected the expression years ago when she realized that people were far less likely to bother her if she looked at them as though they were monsters.

She sighed heavily let her head loll forward, her straight blond hair falling into a protective curtain. Her thoughts sunk into the cement floor. Why was she here? She was no punk. She was a scared little girl from the upper class in a pair of borrowed Doc Martins!

"Are you gonna bogart that wall all night, or can I join you?"

This time the terrified look was genuine as she flinched at the closeness of the strange voice. Glancing up, she almost sighed in relief when she met the concerned gaze of the band's bassist. She took it as a good sign when his eyes remained on her face.

Christine brushed her hair behind her ear and gave him a small smile. "You're Darren right? One of the guys that Mandi's moving in with?"

Darren's mouth split into a wide, symmetrical grin and he leaned his shoulder against the wall. "Yeah that's me," he replied with self-deprecating roll of his eyes. "So how'd you like the show?" Christine watched his dark eyes flick over across the room. Her own gaze followed and rested on that boy, that singer, that 'Erik'. He sat languidly in a sofa, knees spread, belly curled as he slouched, one arm tossed over the back of the sofa, long fingers digging into the frayed material; his other hand rested across the toned torso and would occasionally slide across the bare skin. She couldn't decide he if looked bored or annoyed, but Christine had yet to meet a boy who would be bored with four tarts perched around him.

Darren must have seen the distaste flicker over her features because he chuckled softly. "I know it doesn't look like it right now, but he's not a bad guy."

She would have made a snide comment about how perfectly wholesome Erik looked, but something about the sincerity of Darren's voice that made her pause. He almost sounded desperate, and she found it odd that he would want to convince a total stranger.

Christine shifted her weight and unconsciously tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I thought the show was interesting," she started lamely. "But I don't really listen to…this type of music."

He gave a small indulgent laugh and ran a hand over his clean-shaven head. "No kidding. You stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd."

She knew damn well that stuck out like Darth Vader at a Peace Corp convention, but that didn't mean that she wanted to hear it. "Mandi said I looked the part," she replied defensively.

Darren flashed her another warm smile and gave her outfit a neutral once over. "Sure you look like a punk, but Darlin' you act like a Christian thrown in the lion's den."

That won him a quiet, but genuine laugh. "Yes, it is rather intimidating," she admitted. God, he had a righteous smile! Too bad her 'rents would have fatal heart attacks if she ever brought a Negro home. _Which may be all the more reason to do so_, a wicked little voice spoke up, and Christine flashed a small grin back at Darren. He really was cute.

They fell into an awkward silence, as is common in such situations, and Christine found herself trying to spot Mandi somewhere in the sprawling indulgent crowd. Darren rubbed his hand over his scalp again and glanced at the ground before speaking again. "So, uh, you're Mandi's friend?"

Christine snorted softly at the sheer cheesiness of that question and raised an eyebrow at him. "So, uh, you're one of the random boys that Mandi's moving in with?"

Darren blinked once at the repeated question and then laughed scornfully at himself. "Yeah, déjà vu. Sorry. And I'm not random, you know. Mandi and I grew up next door to each other, and my parents took Erik into foster care when he was fifteen," he explained with a casual shrug. "So it's less like she's moving in with strangers than just her older brothers."

She smirked and looked pointedly at Erik, who was currently occupied with trailing his mouth along the contours of one girl's neck. Christine refused to admit how appealing the thought of such treatment suddenly was. "Right, because nothing says protective older brothers than promiscuous sex and drugs."

Darren looked genuinely hurt as he turned to her. "Look, I know he doesn't look like a model citizen, but you can't judge him when he's like this. He's a good lad, really. And I don't drink or get high myself."

Christine flashed him a deeply skeptical look. "That so."

He frowned at her. "Yes, I'm Muslim."

Suddenly she felt rather stupid indeed. "Aw geez, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Darren had the rare ability to be able to laugh at a person, without making them defensive. "It's alright, but that does prove my point doesn't it?"

She smiled easily back at him and nodded. "Alright, alright, fair play."

Darren flashed her another heart-stopping grin and rubbed the back of his head and neck in what she realized could only be a nervous habit. He looked as though he had something to say, but he suddenly froze, his smile gone.

Christine looked over and realized that Erik was staring at them. There was something off about his gaze, something angry…but it didn't look like he was specifically angry with her or Darren. There was a vague sense of tension and displeasure around him.

Darren gulped softly as he watched Erik stand and approach. She had been uneasy when she first noticed that ambiguously dangerous gaze, but now she was utterly creeped-out. Erik moved with a stilted, rapid, almost twitchy gait; he looked like he was trying desperately to move gracefully through a briar patch.

Darren took a half step closer to her as Erik came nearer. "Let me talk to him," he said quietly, lips barely moving.

She stood stiffly and unconsciously backed up against the wall; ready for whatever may occur.

But nothing happened, Erik was intercepted about two and a half yards away by a busty girl with perfectly feathered black hair. Christine was surprised at the disappointment mingling with the relief. _What would he have said?_

* * *

Kitty's arms fitted easily around his waist as she slipped next to him. "Erik, you haven't called in two weeks," she said with a criminally sexy pout. "I feel neglected." 

All thought of Darren and that mysterious bird disappeared with the first inhale of Kitty's lilac perfume. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lowered his head to hungrily kiss her exposed neck and shoulder. "You're right Kitten, I've been a proper wretch to have treated you like this," he purred against her olive skin.

Here was a woman who understood the rules! Kitty ignored the mask, didn't demand commitment, and was an animal in the sack.

She slid one graceful, soft hand down his belly, down over the front of his kilt, and gave him a promising grope. Erik growled and pulled her tightly against him. "I'll just have to make it up to you, won't I?"

Kitty threw her head back in a throaty laugh, her crimson lips pulling into a lustful grin as he led her across the room. She had a beautiful mouth, and he had plans for it.

Perhaps tonight wouldn't be a total waste, he thought as he led his lady into one of the private rooms.

* * *

Christine turned away with a look of disgust, ready to demand how Darren could possibly defend that little display. To her surprise, Darren's expression mirrored her own; when he caught her eyes, he gave a slight grimace. "Ok, I know he might look like a right, skirt-chasing bastard, but he is more than that." 

Once again, she was struck by the sincerity of his tone, and she suddenly realized that he wanted her to agree with him. And just as quickly as it had sparked, the urge to be catty died away. After seeing the look in Darren's eyes, it would be like kicking a puppy and that's just not kosher.

"He's an amazing singer," she admitted with a small shrug.

She smiled slightly as he almost literally sagged with relief and that easy grin returned to his face. "Yeah, he really is. He's a genius, you know—"

Christine didn't get the chance to hear the end of Darren's thought though.

All activity in the room stopped at the sound of raised voices. Even the near-catatonic stoners perked up and turned to look at the closed door.

Christine frowned; she could hear Erik's voice, hoarse and wrathful. She glanced once at Darren, but he was staring hard at the door. "X-ray vision on the fritz there, Superman?"

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. "I just wonder what's wrong."

Several people jumped as the metal door shuddered against its hinges under a heavy impact. There was a moment of silence before a pathetic groan came from the closed room, and the shouting started again. This time a woman's voice joined Erik's.

She barely heard Darren give a murmured 'aw shite' before he started jogging across the room. Christine made a move to follow him, but stopped as the door was violently kicked open with a loud bang. She watched in shock as Erik dragged a teenage boy out by his t-shirt.

Erik hauled the kid, no older than nineteen, up to look him in the eye, and the fact that the boy's feet hung a few inches above the ground wasn't lost on anyone.

Erik was terrifying, his eyes burned out through his mask, his lips were pulled back in a snarl, and every muscle was tight with his rage. The boy was sniveling and wriggling in his grasp, blood flowing freely from a badly broken nose; Christine couldn't hear what was being said.

Darren took a few more steps forward, but Erik paid him no attention; he was only aware of the boy. Giving him a violent shake, Erik brought him even closer to his face and roared, "YOU DON'T TREAT WOMEN LIKE THAT!"

Christine's hand flew to her mouth suddenly; _what had happened!_

Darren was moving again, but Erik gave an inarticulate growl and threw the boy away from him in disgust. The young punk flailed his arms as he went over the ratty sofa and crashed down hard on the table.

A few people were spurred into motion and they rushed to the boy's side; whether to admire the damage or help remained to be seen.

Erik didn't give the chaos a second look as he spun on his heel and returned back into the dark room. Darren ran to catch up with him. "Erik, fer chrissake what's happened?" he called.

Christine moved forward to hear the answer, but Erik's response was cut off by a screech from the girl Erik had escorted into the backroom. She came tearing back out of the room and threw herself at the whimpering punk, scratching and slapping him. "You little fuckin' cunt! A fuckin roofy! You sick fuck!"

Christine's hand flew to her mouth suddenly. _No!_ She watched as all the women in the room narrowed their eyes and began to circle the now terrified and bruised boy.

She looked around for Mandi and began to quietly panic when she couldn't find the cheerful blond. Christine found herself running over to the darkroom. _No, no, no, no, not Mandi!_

She skidded to a halt in front of the door as Erik and Darren walked back out. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of Mandi in Erik's arms, clinging drunkenly to his neck.

"Oh God! Is she alright?" she cried, trying to move closer to Erik. Darren intercepted her, placing his hand on her upper arms and pushing her gently back.

"She'll be ok," he told her quickly. "Erik found her before the bastard could do anything."

Erik looked up from Mandi at the sound of his name and locked eye with Christine over Darren's shoulder. He looked older again, and worried, despite the glassy quality of his eyes. After a moment he looked back down at Mandi and pressed a reassuring kiss to her forehead, holding her protectively.

Suddenly, the weight of what could have happened if Erik had not walked into that room hit her like a wall, and Christine began to shake and cry.

Darren wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. "Hey, it's ok," he told her as they moved to the exit. "It's ok. Come on, you can stay at our place tonight."

She nodded weakly and looked at Erik and Mandi again; Mandi was slurring quiet words into Erik's neck as he held her. He met Christine's eyes again, and she realized that Darren was right; there was more to this strange masked man.

He cast his mismatched eyes back over to Darren and nodded to the door. His voice was hoarse from the night's events, but his words were beautiful to Christine. "Let's get these ladies someplace safe."


	4. Box Five

As always, mad love for my beta/PR Agent, Erik, he's had more to do with the success of this story than he'd ever let anyone convince him._  
_

_

* * *

If you wish to live in peace, you must not begin by taking away my private box._

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux.

* * *

It was a long night. No one slept, save for Mandi who passed out at three forty-seven. 

The four had sat in the sparse living room, few words were spoken, Darren and Erik seemed to communicate to each other through subtle shifts in body language and pointed glances, and Christine had nothing to say as she watched Mandi going through the effects of the drug.

It broke her heart to see her friend's eyes grow wide and wild with irrational fear, only to grow heavy and lethargic moments later; Erik held her protectively in his arms as she rode through the waves of emotions.

Mandi clung to Erik's neck and nuzzled against him, occasionally leaving a biting kiss. She watched him accept this treatment stoically, rubbing Mandi's back and whispering soothing words to her until she was overcome with exhaustion.

Now Darren sat next to Christine on the faded sofa, ready to take care of her should the stress of all that had happened became too much for her. She barely noticed him as she watched Mandi and Erik, her face pinched with concern. Watching him hold her, Christine suddenly felt guilty for being so quick to judge the masked man. There was nothing skeevy, or off-putting about him now. Though she did wonder why he hadn't taken the mask off; she had thought he simply wore it for the show.

She shrugged the pointless thought off; if he wanted to appear mysterious, let him. She stood with out a word and walked into the kitchen, feeling the questioning eyes of the two men following her every move. She ignored it as best she could and slipped through the doorway.

She didn't bother look up at the sound of footsteps behind her as she filled a smudged glass with water from the sink. Christine didn't want to speak; she was terrified that she would simply break down in tears again. She drank half the glass before the person behind her broke the silence. "She's going to be alright, Christine."

She spun slowly and faced Darren as she leaned against the cold edge of the Formica countertop. "How do you know that!" she demanded, her voice becoming a strained whisper. "Has this happened before?"

Darren held up his hands quickly, almost defensively, to calm her. "No, no, of course not! I just meant that I know how this drug works," he hastily explained taking a step forward, as though to embrace her.

Christine turned away from him and set the glass down in the sink. "You're sure she'll be alright?" she asked softly as she faced him again; she hated the tremor that ran beneath the words, and she cleared her throat with a slight grimace to hide it.

He crossed his arms loosely over his chest. "Yes I'm sure. Erik wouldn't let anything happen to her."

Suddenly Christine was tired of all the vague laurels that Darren hung around this "Erik's" neck. "And what if _he_ happens to her!" she snapped suddenly in a hissed whisper. "Christ, she's nearly comatose, and he's fuckin' high! I saw how he was acting with those other girls!"

Darren narrowed his eyes at her, his jaw dangerously tight, and she instantly regretted the hasty words. "I'm going to take a moment to remember that you're exhausted, worried, and totally out of your depth, so that I don't hit you," he growled softly. Christine tried to step back at his tone, but was stopped by the counter. "You haven't got a Danny LaRue what your talkin' about little girl, and it would be in your best interest not to make bogus accusations, fool that you are." He stepped closer to her and held one index finger stiffly before her nose as he continued speaking. "Erik would never hurt Mandi; they're closer'n siblings or lovers."

He could have continued to harangue her for those thoughtless words, but a third voice stopped him. "Let 'er alone Mate, she's got every right not ta trust me."

Erik stood leaning a shoulder against the door jam, his right arm hanging loosely while he absently rubbed the back of his neck with the other. Even with the mask covering so much of his face, Christine could see the weariness pulling at the corners of his lips and dulling his eyes. She was hit with another wave of guilt; he had heard.

Darren took a long breath and then turned to face him, rubbing a hand over his scalp. "How is she?" he asked softly.

Erik sighed and rolled his shoulders as he took one step into the kitchen. "She's dead to the world," he answered softly, holding Darren's gaze. "She'll sleep the rest of the night." And then suddenly he turned to face Christine. She felt her heart jump to her throat when his eyes fell on her and his attention focused. Even with the weariness clouding them, his gaze was frighteningly piercing, and she uncomfortably noticed that he had yet to put a shirt on. Her own eyes rebelliously followed the planes of his torso and she felt a blush spread across her features as she looked back up at his face. "She probably won't remember any of what happened," he said evenly without acknowledging her embarrassment. "And because nothing happened, I think it would be a good idea if we didn't tell her; it'd only hurt her."

Darren nodded in the corner of her eye even through Erik was speaking to her. She bit her lip as she thought about what he had said. Part of her didn't like the idea of lying to Mandi, but really what would it solve to put her through that kind of emotional pain? After a moment she nodded her agreement and he nodded once in reply before turning and walking silently out of the kitchen.

Darren hurriedly followed. "Erik, where are you going?"

"For a walk," he answered without looking back.

"You're not going to Bucket's are you?"

Erik spun suddenly on his heel and glared at the other man. "No, and I want you to have flushed the rest of the fuckin' Charlie down the shitter by the time I get back," his voice suddenly sharp in the quiet room as she listened from the kitchen.

Darren's voice was confused as he replied. "Do you mean—"

"Yes, that's what I fuckin' mean," Erik hissed back softly. "I'm done with it, and now I'm going for a walk to clear my head." Then his voice became gentle again, as if with the flick of a switch. "And try and make sure that other girl gets some rest too."

Christine stood frozen as she listened to the door open and then close; even though she knew he was gone, her heart refused to slow. Darren reentered the kitchen and reached out briefly to touch her arm, but then pulled back as if he had thought better of it. "I need to go through the apartment and find where he stashes all the coke," he explained simply. "You can help me, or go lay down in one of the bedrooms."

She was too stunned to answer right away. He was talking about _cocaine_ as if it were nothing! Christine could barely begin to process that the drug was anything more than a bogeyman her parents threatened her with, let alone agree to search an apartment for it! Her stomach gave a rolling lurch and she braced herself against the counter. "I think I'd better lay down," she whispered.

Darren placed his hands on her shoulders for a moment to steady her. "Yeah, of course, you've gotta be beat; the bedrooms are down the hall on either side, pick anyone you want."

Christine all but dragged herself down the dim hallway and picked the first doorknob she found. She could see little else except the dark shape of a bed on the floor; it was probably shoddy, but she didn't care. Sitting on the edge of the king-size mattress, she peeled off the Doc Martins, reflecting briefly that she had indeed been glad she was wearing them. Christine flopped bonelessly down onto the bed, letting the breath whoosh from her lungs; she very nearly purred. It was not a shoddy mattress; it was damn near heaven. With a monstrous yawn, she pulled the worn comforter over herself and curled into a tight ball.

She was asleep instantly.


	5. The Enchanted Violin

As always, mad props and love to my Beta/PR Agent, Erik.

* * *

_Yes, I believe that Christine Daaé was frightened by what had happened to her…_

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux.

* * *

Erik's feet led him back to the flat after the sky had lightened to the cheerfully anemic gray of another London morning. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and die.

He was starting the withdrawal symptoms faster than he had expected; just knowing that the coke would be gone by the time he got back made him antsy. That feeling made him want to quit all the more, which made him crave it more; he grimaced at the rapidly escalating cycle made his headache throb behind his eyes.

He wanted so badly to just peel the mask away and bury his face in his hands. Course, he could no more do that than he could hop a plane to sunny Barbados.

Erik's eyes slid up the dingy building as he approached and settled on his own window on the third floor. He didn't want to go back there; he knew what was waiting for him. If Darren didn't have a lecture ready then he'd be all silence and pitying stares. Erik didn't know which option he hated more. Not to mention that Mandi was probably still passed out; he really hoped she didn't remember. More to the point he hoped that Nosey Parker of a girl kept her trap shut about the incident.

Christ, that little fuckwit had really made a dog's dinner of the whole evening. Erik hated him for putting him in this position. Now, not only did he have to face withdrawal, but he hadn't even been able to scratch his other itch and spend some quality time with Kitten. He rubbed the back of his neck irritably; he should send her some flowers or something, make sure she was alright.

All too soon, he was climbing the worn stairs. The pothead in 2B was blaring David Bowie again, the floor near his door thrummed with the bass line.

_I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years_  
_Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years_

Erik was halfway up the last staircase before he realized that the song had forced itself into his consciousness. He swore inwardly as he sang aloud. _Could be worse_, he thought, _at least the stoner doesn't listen to ABBA anymore._

He grew quiet as he entered the flat and looked around. Mandi was still passed out on the sofa thankfully, and he could see neither Darren nor Mandi's friend. _What was her name? Kirsten? Eh, it doesn't matter._

Erik sighed and walked tiredly towards his bedroom; Darren caught him as he went past the bathroom. "Hey, wait," he said softly reaching out to grab Erik's wrist.

"What is it? Did you find all the Charlie?" he replied, pulling his hand away.

Darren nodded and let his arm fall limply. "Yeah I did, unless ye've started pulling the floorboards up."

He shook his head. "No, never that extreme. I'm going to bed; don't let anyone one bother me."

Darren stopped him again before he'd taken a step. "Erik wait! Christine's in your bed."

"Who?"

"Christine, Mandi's friend?"

"Oh right." _Not "Kirsten" then_. "Why is she in my bed, Darren? I'm in no mood to entertain guests."

Darren shrugged faintly. "I just told her to pick a room and she happened into yours. You can have my bed if ya want."

Erik flashed him a slight sneer. "I don't want yer bed Mate; I want mine, and that little princess will just have to deal with it."

His room was still thankfully dark because of the thick curtains, and he didn't bother to turn the light; he'd always had better night vision than most, and as a child would scare the hell out of his mother while wandering around the dark house.

He wove with unconscious grace through the various obstacles, the books, the clothes, and the papers. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed opposite the sleeping silhouette of Christine.

Erik pulled his trainers off and tossed them carelessly aside; setting down an extra guitar wire, his hands moved to his kilt and then paused. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. _Now, there is an opportunity here, Erik ol' boy; shall we play the gentleman and grab a pair of sweats to protect the fair maiden's honor?_

His headache gave another heavy throb, and he grimaced at the thought of sleeping in anything; it just made him feel too confined. Besides, it's not like he owed the bird anything after she'd shot her mouth off like that in the kitchen.

Erik slipped out of the kilt without a second thought and crawled into bed. He pulled over part of the comforter over his legs and lay on his back, tucking his hands beneath his head. He listened to Christine take a deeper breath when the blanket moved, and then grow silent again.

He grimaced as the mask shifted against sweaty, irritated skin, and wondered why he hadn't just agreed to use Darren's bed. At least then he'd be able to take the blasted thing off. Still, if he left the room now, then Darren would give him that 'I warned you' look, and he hated that look more than he hated sleeping in his mask.

After a few moments, he felt exhaustion begin to creep over as his breathing slowed to a soft counter rhythm of the girl next to him. Erik would never admit it to anyone, but he'd always slept better with another person in the bed.

* * *

Christine woke with a slight feeling of wrongness and frowned as she stared at the opposite wall, lit by a slash of sunlight through a part in the heavy curtains. _What was_---and then she heard it.

There was someone else in the room; she could hear them breathing. She did a quick mental check to see if she should panic. _Dress: check. Tights: check. Panties: check._ She wasn't in any pain, so it didn't look like she was in any danger. Christine cautiously sat up and looked over her shoulder. She stifled as gasp and nearly fell out of the bed.

Erik lay across the bed from her on his belly with his left arm bent tucked beneath his cheek. She frowned in surprise. He was still wearing that bleedin' mask! Jesus, it was down right creepy the way the shadows hid his closed eyes. He looked far too much like a grinning skull, and she had to glance away.

That was when she really noticed that the design that circled his bicep was more than just a machismo band of flames. The twin bands of flames actually extended up and down his arm from a light blue band about two inches wide. Within the band she could see a string of dark birds in flight; she leaned forward slightly and realized that they were magpies. _Why on Earth would someone get magpies tattooed on them?_

Following the lines of his shoulder, she took a moment to examine the design on his left shoulder blade. It was a demon, and it was crying. Christine leaned forward another fraction. No, it wasn't crying, it was _grieving_ with its ugly head thrown back in a silent howl as it clawed desperately at its chest. There was such a stark, ugliness to the figure that Christine felt her throat tighten until she couldn't bear to look at any longer.

Her eyes flicked lower and her breath caught in her throat. The comforter had fallen sinfully low over Erik's pelvis exposing far more of his lithe, athletic frame than Christine ever wanted to see. She'd never been a particularly lustful girl, but the sight of his pale thigh against the dark fabric and the toned curve of his arse caught something in her lower belly and twisted pleasantly, and then suddenly turned to lead as she glanced back up and realized that he was staring at her. _With a smirk!_

_Why that inconceivable bastard!_ She felt her face grow flushed with embarrassment as she scooted helplessly backward and floundered for words. Erik's thin lips pulled back into a devastatingly handsome lop-sided grin, and his eyes nearly shimmered with amusement. "See something you like Sweetheart?"

The shame was burned away in a rush of indignation. _How dare he!_ "Why you—to think that—OOH you ass!" she fumed. He only chuckled in reply and gave a small stretch; Christine's treacherous eyes darted down along his back once more, savoring the way he moved. He laughed harder and Christine choked the urge to slap the one area in reach. "You sonuvabitch! Why the _fuck_ are you naked?" she cried, doing her best not to sound hysterical.

Erik winced briefly at her voice and then pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think the real question here, Princess, is why yer even in _my_ bed to begin with. I mean, I'd love to entertain company, but I've got a wicked headache."

She gaped at him a moment and then closed her mouth and hoped it was possible to simply drop dead from a blush. There was a moment of silence and then painful clarity. _Shite! I'm in his bed!_ Christine scooted back hurriedly and promptly fell out of the bed with a squeak. Grabbing her shoes, she could hear Erik laugh softly and shift with a rustle of cloth, and she dreaded peering back over the edge the bed. She breathed a grateful sigh when she saw that Erik had simply rolled to face away from her and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders.

She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway; a question pushing against her lips, begging to be asked. "Erik?" she called out softly; half-hoping he was already asleep.

"Hm?" He lifted his head in her general direction.

She swallowed and tightened her grip on the laces of the Doc Martins. "Why do you wear that mask?"

Erik tensed suddenly and laid his head back down. "Go home, Princess," he answered finally. Christine frowned but did not press him.

Mandi was still asleep on the couch when she found Darren in the kitchen. He turned to her with a tired smile and offered a cup of tea. "You sleep alright?"

She grimaced as she took the mug inhaled some of the steam. "I slept fine, but the wake-up left something to be desired."

He nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry about that, I tried to convince him to just use my bed."

Christine frowned him. "Why didn't you just ask me to move? Or move me?"

Darren shrugged weakly and glanced at the ground. "Honestly, it just didn't occur to me. I'm sorry."

She shook her head at the reasoning of men and took a sip of her tea. "Hey Darren?"

He had turned away to pour a bowl of cereal. "Yes?"

"Why does he wear that mask?"

Darren spilled some milk over the edge of his bowl as he flinched faintly at the question. He turned around and leaned against the counter and held his meal before him. "Because it's terribly comfortable," he muttered as he took a bite.

Christine frowned and gave him the narrow-eyed look she learned from her mother. Darren squirmed a moment and then sighed, hanging his head. He crossed the small room and stood next to her, contemplating his corn flakes. When spoke, his voice was hushed and secretive. "Erik was attacked by a pit-bull when he was eleven; it tore his face off."

Her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped in horror. _Oh God_.

Darren shushed her quickly. "If he knew I mentioned it to you, he'd be out for my claret," he whispered quickly.

She set the cup of tea down on the counter before it slipped from her shaky fingers. "Why? Why didn't he get prosthetics or plastic surgery?"

He shook his head and stared down at the soggy contents of his bowl. "Erik never told me, and it's not my place to ask." He turned to her and stared at her seriously. "I seriously recommend that you forget what I've told you. If he wanted to you to know, he'd've told you."

Christine nodded silently and peered forlornly at the cold tea; she couldn't stand the thought of food. _The dog tore off his face…how could an eleven year old survive that?_

Darren set the bowl and teacup in the sink and then faced her again. "When Mandi wakes up, I'll take you both back to her mom's place."

She nodded without really hearing him.


	6. A Visit To Box Five

Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, but I like how it works. As always mad props and love for my Beta/PR Agent, Erik.

* * *

_  
They were almost alone in the huge, gloomy house; and a great silence surrounded them._

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

He was fairly certain that he was dead by eleven a.m. and that Hell, in fact, revolved around memorizing the various stains in the toilet bowl while he retched again and again. Erik was shattered, too utterly exhausted to even move his cheek from the toilet seat as his belly finally relaxed. His hands trembled uselessly as he reached out for the glass of water that sat next to his mask on the counter top nearby.

Darren walked past and watched Erik chase the glass around with clumsy, fumbling attempts at gripping the smooth surface. After a moment, he walked in, took the glass and knelt next to him. Erik sneered when Darren lifted his head and put the rim to his lips, but he did not protest or struggle. He took a long drink, giving a slow exhale of relief through the ruined hole of his nose as the cool liquid soothed away the acrid burn at the back of his throat.

Christ, he felt so pathetic. So this was what his life had become? It was all so pointless. Erik was tempted to roll onto his back and choke on his own bile. He had no music, no drugs, and no one would notice if he died right here.

Putting his sweat-slicked forehead back against the toilet seat, he sneered at himself in disgust, wave of frustration surging forward. _Lookit yerself, Billy No Mates, going on and on 'bout how alone you are when Darren's worryin' hisself ill over yer boney arse. You make me sick!_ His stomach gave a violent heave and he clung weakly to the toilet bowl as he lost the few swallows of water he had gotten down.

Sometime later, hours or years, Erik managed to crawl back to his bed and fall into a fitful sleep, the sheets tangled around his legs. He had dreamt of blood for years; the color and the copper bite haunted his memories and nightmares. But never like this, it filled his vision and crept down over his mask like the tears of a mournful saint. He could taste it, roll the thick liquid over his tongue as it slid from his lips and dripped off of his chin. His neck was hot and wet with more blood that fell from the Chelsea Smile below his jaw.

Erik felt his lips pull back into a crazed, feral grin as he approached the sniveling figure before him. He hefted the man to his feet with a growl, fisting his hands in the front of the stained button-down shirt. The older man whimpered pathetically and pushed weakly at Erik's chest, trying to get away. Familiar, hated, grey eyes widened in horror as he was pulled closer to Erik's bloody visage. Sucking on his tongue a moment, Erik spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into his father's face. "You fucker," he growled and ruthlessly backhanded him. "Are you proud of me now!"

His head twisted away under the impact, and Erik felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of blood when he looked back. Then his father grinned and Erik stared in horror at the mirror of himself. "Your mother would be," he purred cruelly.

Suddenly, Erik was choking on the blood in his mouth as he struggled against a wave of bone-chilling nausea. _Oh God, oh no, no, no, NO!_ "That's not true!" He managed to spit the words out as he gasped for breath. His father only grinned wider. He hated that grin, and the rage burned away the fear. With a roar, he pulled an arm back and threw all of his weight behind his fist, shattering the bastard's jaw. But he only kept grinning!

Erik hit him again and again, until the familiar features were lost under the swelling and the claret.

_There was so much blood!_

The scream was dying in his throat as he woke with a violent start, sitting straight up in his bed, sweat running off him as he trembled. No sooner had he drawn breath than he was on his hands and knees on the floor, sobs mingling with dry heaves. Christ, he could still taste the copper!

Darren was at his side in a moment, bringing a bucket and muttering pathetic words meant to soothe. Erik weakly batted away the hand trying to rub his back, and then collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.

He stared at the cracks in the ceiling and took a shaky breath through his nasal cavity and ignored the sting of tears. "Get me some booze," he finally muttered to Darren. "Something hard."


	7. Faust and What Followed

Another short chapter, and I'm sorry y'all waited so long for itAs always, mad props and love for my Beta/PR Agent/Bodyguard, Erik._  
_

-----

_So it is to be war between us?_

From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux

-----

Darren watched Mandi from the corner of his eye as she read the morning paper. A full day after the events at the Roxy and she didn't seem to remember a thing; he hadn't been able to really talk with her because Erik still needed so much of his attention.

He glanced back down the hall towards Erik's room as he carried his cup of tea over to the table to sit with Mandi. It had been around 4am in the morning that Erik had stopped the near continual retching and collapsed back into an uneasy sleep. Darren hadn't slept after that, needing to totally clean the bathroom and as much of Erik's bedroom as he could.

"Holy crow!" He jumped violently at Mandi's outburst and then swore softly as he upset some of the still scalding tea onto his hand.

"What is it?" he asked quickly, fearing she was suddenly experiencing a flashback.

Mandi took another bite from her toast and pointed to a small article in the paper. "Some kid was killed just outside the Roxy night before last," she answered, her eyes scanning the paper. "Says here that he was found garroted by some kinda wire and left out back."

Darren felt his blood run cold as he rubbed a hand over his scalp and examined the contents of his teacup. "Does it say anything about suspects?"

Mandi shook her head and answered through a bite of toast. "Nope; no witnesses and no murder weapon. The cozzers don't care about some dead punk."

He let himself exhale slowly with relief before he stood. "Think I'll go check on Erik."

She looked up from the paper, her face lined with worry. "How is he?"

"He's going through withdrawal," Darren called back softly as he moved down the hall. "He's peachy keen."

The only light in Erik's room were the few beams of sunlight that managed to push their way through the tightly drawn blinds, and Darren crept silently towards the bed. Thankfully, Erik was still asleep, curled into a tight ball beneath the comforter. He was also grateful to see that the level of water in the pitcher next to the bed was considerably lower. Between the scotch and the near continual razzing, Erik had become badly dehydrated last night, and to know that he could now keep down some water was reassuring.

Darren knelt next to the bed and began sifting through the scattered clothes. He was jumping to conclusions, he knew that. But still, he had to know. He felt his heart skip a beat and then race forward as he found the coiled guitar string beneath the kilt on the floor. Lifting it into the half-light, he squinted as he examined its length.

"What do you think ye'll find, Daisy Mae?"

He jumped violently at the sound of the raw whisper, the guitar string slipping from his fingers and back to the shadowy floor. Turning, Darren fought down a shiver when he caught Erik's gaze peering out from beneath the blanket; even in the low light, his mismatched eyes managed to catch a glimmer of light and glow eerily. Darren hated when his eyes did that.

He swallowed and tried to shrugged nonchalantly. "Dirty clothes; I figured I'd take a load down to the laundry mat."

Erik's eyes narrowed a fraction before closing with a soft sigh. Darren heard a muffled "Thanks Mum" as Erik pulled the edge of the comforter back down and turned away.

Shoulders sagging slightly in relief, Darren congratulated himself for being cool as a cucumber; until he realized he was now forced to do said load of laundry. He muttered a few emphatic swears as he gathered up Erik's dirty clothes and tucked them under his arm as he left.

Dropping the clothes in a pile just outside the door, he looked up to see Mandi walking past him to her room, a distasteful look on her face. Behind her, Jules Bucket openly leered as her retreating form as he leaned on the kitchen door frame. He fought down a sneer as he walked forward to address the crooked weasel. "What do you want, Bucket?"

"It's _Boo_-kay," the scrawny man snapped in reply before looking over Darren's shoulder to watch Mandi disappear through her door. "An' about ten minutes with that little tart would do me jus' fine," he muttered.

Fighting the urge to throttle him outright, Darren leaned against the entrance of the hall protectively. "Get to the point Jules."

With a laugh that would have made a hyena shudder, Jules clapped his hands together one and rubbed his palms eagerly. "Never muckin' 'round the bush are ye, Darren? Well, I've come into possession of some really primo Charlie, and I thought ta meself 'Oo's got a nose fer the good stuff? Why me ol' mate Erik Carver o'course!' and so I comes straight over."

"Sorry, Jules, he's quit," Darren replied with a curt shake of his head. And it was about time too; it was obvious that Bucket loved keeping a leash Erik by controlling his coke supply.

The weasel's face crumpled a moment and then grew suspicious. "Ye better not be tellin' me porkie pies, mate," he warned softly.

"He's not," The voice appeared out of nowhere, and both Jules and Darren flinched in surprise. Turning slightly, Darren watched Erik exit his room, dressed some faded linen pants and a form-fitting t-shirt. He moved smoothly, and even with the raw edge to his voice it would be nearly impossible to guess that he was going through withdrawal.

Bucket's lips pulled back in a crooked-toothed sneer, but Erik cut him off. "Bugger off, Jules; we'll see you at the gig next week and not before." A coward at heart, Bucket tucked tail and left the flat quickly, swearing and muttering to himself.

Once the weasel had left, Erik collapsed against the wall and ran his fingers through his hair tiredly. Darren frowned in concern and watched him closely. "How you feel?"

Erik shot him a withering look. "Like I've been eaten by the dog that bit me and then shat out, you bent fuckwit," he growled. When Darren didn't rise to the bait, he sighed and pressed his thumb and two fingers through his mask to rub his eyes. "But better than yesterday."

Darren nodded silently and moved into his own room to continue gathering laundry, leaving Erik to mentally kick himself once again for being an ass.

He staggered into the kitchen. Being able to hold liquids down only meant one thing to him, and he reached for the liquor cabinet. It was time to start drinking again.


	8. The Mysterious Brougham

Well, sweet mother of Larry! I'm not dead! Writing's been rather difficult lately, but lo and behold this chapter came out. I won't promise another update soon; I'd really like to pull my other phic from the grave yard.

As always, mad props and love to my Beta/PR Agent/Cigarette Brand Guru, Erik.

* * *

_"He knew Christine's story. After her father's death, she acquired a distaste of everything in life, including her art. She went through the conservatoire like a poor soulless singing-machine. And, suddenly, she awoke as though through the intervention of a god. The Angel of Music appeared upon the scene!"_

-From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

Christine rather liked working the overnight shift at Gordeep's Grocery for two good reasons. The main was that next to no one ever came in while she was working – she rather liked being left to her own devices – and the second was that it irritated the hell out of her parents. That, alone, made it worth dealing with the occasional drunk. She spent most nights singing along with the little radio behind the counter while she counted the cigarette packs and restocked the coolers.

Tonight, she was huddled over the bottom shelf of the cigarette case, struggling with a stiff slider that wouldn't allow her to cleanly insert the soft packs into their rows. Accidently crushing another box, she flung the rest of the carton away in frustration. "Bloody Hell! Stupid fuckin' things anyway," she huffed as she stared critically at the case.

"Such crude language for such a pretty girl." She jumped to feet and spun in shock, her heart racing suddenly at the smooth voice behind her. Seeing Erik, standing behind the counter, his lips pulled into a smirk didn't comfort her. Without thought, she leaned back against the case, keeping as far away as possible. There was something wrong with him, she could tell that much at least. What she should see of his skin looked clammy and damp, his lips pale and pulled thin in pain; he looked frighteningly ill. His eyes disturbed her most though, glassy and blank they examined her dully as though she were a second-hand scrap of clothing. Alarm bells went off her head and she hated the fact that she had to step forward to ring up the six pack of beer he had set on the counter.

He didn't speak again as she worked the dingy register; forcing herself to be calm, she faced him and fought down a wave of disgust when he didn't even bother to lift his eyes from her chest. Swallowing heavily to clear the bile from her throat, she found her voice. "Will there be anything else?"

His slid dazedly up over her body and over to the display behind her and then up to the overhead shelf above them. His smirk grew a fraction as his filthy gaze fell back to her body. "I'd like a pack of Johnnies."

She stared at him blankly. "I beg your pardon?"

He chuckled with a kind of indulgence that made her skin prickle. "A pack of John Players." He raised a hand and pointed his long index finger upwards. "I notice you have them here."

A sense of dread began to pool in her belly as she took a half-step back to glance up and finally spot the brand he wanted. It was on the highest shelf naturally; she looked back down and outright glared at him. "No problem," she ground out as she stretch up on the balls of her feet to reach up and lift down a pack. Christine had never felt dirtier during the simple act of pulling down a pack of fags than she did at that moment. With the way he stared at her, it was impossible _not _to.

And his damnable smirk had only grown as she viciously wrung up the cigarettes and then flicked her wrist to toss them on to the counter. Erik caught her wrist in his hand and brushed his thumb over her pulse-point slowly. "Thanks Sweetheart," he purred in a low slurred voice, his rank breath washing over her arm. He stank of alcohol; Christine yanked her arm free with a sneer.

"Don't touch me," she spat at him.

For a moment his eyes lit up with interest and Christine felt herself pale. For the first time since he showed up, she realized that she was alone in a convenience store with a man quite a bit taller and stronger than she, at three in the morning. "I wonder if you're that feisty when a bloke's got a leg over ye," he slurred with that same disgusting smirk.

Her jaw dropped in shock. How could she have ever thought there was more to this punk, let alone pity him for whatever it was that he hid behind his stupid mask! She felt her mouth pull into a snarl. "Either pay for your shite, or fuck off," she growled.

He pursed his lips into a pout and leaned back from the counter. "Easy there, Princess, you talk to your mother with that mouth?"

Christine felt her blood boil; just let him try anything and she'd pistol whip him with the revolver Mr. Gordeep kept taped under the counter.

"Erik?" A familiar voice spoke up and she looked up to watch Darren enter the store and storm over. "Dude, you fuckin' promised you wouldn't leave the flat! I had no idea where you were!"

Erik rolled his eyes and turned away. "Sorry Mum."

Darren didn't notice her until he reached the counter. "I'm sorry about him Miss--Oh Christine..." his face fell. "I wish we didn't keep meeting like this."

She brushed away his apologies. "Whatever, just pay for his crap and get him outta here."

He promptly pulled out his wallet while Erik snickered wickedly, still leering at her. "I know, I'm sorry, please, he's in a real bad place right now..." he paused, staring at the pack of cigarettes on the counter. He turned to Erik, brows furrowed. "You don't smoke John Players."

Erik shrugged lightly, an unrepentant smile on his thin lips; Christine could see a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. She wondered irrationally if he had a fever, but she pushed the thought away and snarled at Darren. "Why do you make excuses for him?" she demanded, slamming her palm down on the counter. Both men started in surprise, but she spared Erik no second glance. "Why the hell do you bother with him? He's just a worthless addict!"

She had expected Darren to jump to his friend's defense, to yell at her for being so insensitive. She was ready to list Erik's offenses and demand satisfaction. Her righteous anger faded at the tired, defeated look on Darren's face; he frowned deeply and pulled a twenty pound note out of his wallet without a word.

Erik, however gave a guttural growl and pointed a threatening finger at her. "I am not worthless, you stupid cow."

For one moment, everything froze and Christine felt the blood fall from her face and into her chest where it boiled. Darren tossed the money on the counter and sighed heavily and muttered something close to "fuckin' asshole" as he dropped his gaze to the countertop in shame. She continued to glare at Erik, wanting nothing more than to slap the mask right off his face. His eye blazed with barely bridled, but she didn't care and her words came of their own accord. "Then what good are you? At least cows _have_ a purpose, you bloody useless wanker! You might as well be _dead_!"

Erik surged forward with a snarl, but was blocked from crossing the counter as Darren threw his shoulder into his side and held him back. "Yeah? Well, what if I _am_ dead?" he was yelling. "Would you sing my requiem?"

Christine took a step back utterly baffled by the question, watching him struggle against Darren's arm. "No," she answered thoughtlessly in a shaky voice.

To her greater horror, he threw his head back and laughed. A terrifying crow, that nearly made her cover her ears at its hysterical edges. Cutting the painful sound off in his throat, he sneered at her, pulling away from Darren and taking a step back toward the door. "Course you won't," he growled in a soft voice that sent a stronger bolt of fear down her spine than his yelling ever could. "Why the _fuck_ would an angel sing for the useless _corpse_ of an addict?"

Her throat went dry as spun on his heels and left the shop. Darren gave her an apologetic look and followed his friend quickly. She stared after them in shock; _was it over? Was Erik really gone?_

For a moment the only thing she could hear was her own shallow breathing, and then, steadily, she began to hear a voice, singing quietly. She couldn't quite make out what was being said, but the pure tenor rose swiftly in volume as she came around the side of the counter and peered out the window.

_Dies irae, dies illa  
Solvet saeclum in favilla,  
Teste David cum Sibylla.  
Quantus tremor est futurus,  
Quando judex est venturus,  
Cuncta stricte discussurus!_

Erik was standing in the middle of the empty street, his head thrown back, mask almost glowing in the street light as he sang. Oh _God_ his voice! Raised in her parent's circle of friends, she had grown up listening to opera. She could identify the world's greatest tenor's by ear, but Erik's voice made her tremble with it's strength and purity.

_Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?  
Quem patronum rogaturus,  
Cum vix justus sit securus?_

This was not how he had sung at the concert, there was nothing punk about his voice aside from the seductive, sinful, smoothness that was laced through it. Suddenly she recognized the latin words, and she gasped at the morbidity of watching him sing his own requiem with an angel's voice.

_Rex tremendae majestatus  
Qui salvandos salvas gratis  
Sale me, fons pietatis_

The tears came of their own accord, but she did not fight them. There was an overwhelming misery in everything about Erik that she irrationally regretted her cruel words, despite his appalling actions. It was as if there were two different men behind that grinning piece of leather. Darren walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder; Erik ignored him and kept his face to the sky.

_Ingemisco tanquam reus,  
Culpa rubet vultus meus;  
Supplicanti parce, Deus.  
Qui Mariam absolvisti,  
Et latronem exaudisti,  
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.  
Preces meae non sunt dignae,  
Sed tu, bonus, fac benigne,  
Ne perenni cremer igne.  
Inter oves locum praesta,  
Et ab hoedis me sequestra,  
Statuens in parte dextra._

She swallowed a sob as his voice fell from that divine level of perfection and dissolved in to a ragged wail. She watched him curl over, taking a long, heavy breath, before he threw his head back and screamed. Christine clasped her hands over her ears, unable to listen to the pure agony in his cry; it washed over her and clawed at her, demanding recognition and comfort. Her hand was on the door when his breath finally gave out and the world fell silent again; she watched Darren pull Erik into his arms and guide him off into the shadows.

After a few moments of calm and quiet, she felt her heart rate return to normal. Christine looked back to the counter, realizing that they had left everything there; beer, cigarettes, and money. Running a hand over the fabric of the ball cap she wore, she sighed and finished ringing up the booze and paid for it, pocketing the change without regret. She stared angrily at the pack of John Players, loathing the idea of reaching back up to replaced them, even if she was alone now. Instead, she flung them in the garbage with a soft growl.

She pulled out a bottle from the pack and leaned back against the wall of cigarettes, sliding down slowly into a sitting position. Wiping the tears from her eyes furiously, she twisted the cap off, and took a long, much needed, drink.

* * *

For those of you who don't speak Latin; here's a translation of the verses I used from the 'Dies Irae'. The translations go in order:

This day, this day of wrath  
shall consume the world in ashes,  
as foretold by David and the Sibyl.

What trembling there will be  
When the judge shall come  
to weigh everything strictly!

What shall I, a wretch, say then?  
To which protector shall I appeal  
When even the just man is barely safe?

King of awful majesty  
You freely save those worthy of salvation  
Save me, found of pity.

I groan as one guilty,  
my face blushes with guilt;  
spare the suppliant, O God.  
Thou who didsnt absolve Mary Magdalen  
and hear the prayer of the thied  
hast given me hope, too.  
My prayers are not worthy,  
but Thou, O good one, show mercy,  
lest I burn in everlasting fire,  
Give me a place among the sheep,  
and separate me from the goats,  
placing me on Thy right hand.

And my translation and lyrics came from : http/members. 


	9. At The Masked Ball

Sorry for the late update, but this semester is really working me hard, so I'll write when I can.

As always mad props and love to my Beta/PR Agent, Erik.  
_

* * *

_

_"...after what happened between us yesterday, after what you said and what I was able to guess, I hardly expected to see you here so soon. I should be the first to delight at your return, if you were not so bent on preserving a secrecy that may be fatal to you...and I have been your friend too long not to be alarmed..."_

-From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

Erik was woken by the sound of bottles being smashed and thrown about. Each high-pitched shatter sent a bolt of pain through his ears, into his skull where his brain was throbbing against the back of his eyes. He flinched and grimaced with each crash, burying his wretched head further under his pillow with a faint whimper.

_Jesus fuckin' Christ on roller-skates_, he thought dully, _whatever happened last night had better a'been worth this hangover._

A few blurred images passed before his mind's eye, but he could grasp none. Sleep was now hopeless and he rose up on his elbows to glare hatefully at the morning light. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he rested his eyes in the heels of his hands before passing his fingers through his lank hair and donning his mask. Erik had the distinct feeling that he wouldn't be pleased with whatever was causing that racket, nonetheless a morbid curiosity pushed him forward and out the door.

Leaning heavily on the smooth wall, he made his way down the hallway toward the kitchen; his head throbbed hotly with every step, and he flinched at every crash. Trapped at the end of the hall by the irrational urge to stay in the shadows and be unseen, Erik rather wished he had a talking Great Dane to help with this mystery. Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath he walked into the kitchen and froze.

Darren stood next to an aluminum garbage can and was throwing each bottle of booze he discovered in to it with an angry grunt. He snarled as he moved through every cupboard, muttering furiously, "Stupid fuckin' wanker!" Throw, _crash_! "I'm not gonna take another minute of it!" Throw, _crash_! "Never again!"

Erik stood in the kitchen doorway with a blank look, jaw agape, and stared uncomprehendingly at the sight; _the fuck is goin' on? He looks like he's gone barmy._ He took a slow step forward, wincing as Darren flung a bottle of Gosling's into the can. "Oy! What d'ya think yer doing?"

Darren turned to face him with a stony expression, "I'm getting rid of the booze, what's it look like?"

He furrowed his brow under the mask and glanced at the bin. "But why? Why's the rum gone?"

Throwing his hands in the air, Darren spun around to grab another bottle and then fling it violently into the dustbin, causing him to flinch and take a half-step back. "Because I'm tired of cleaning up after your tanked ass! I'm sick of it!" he snarled.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?" Erik threw his hands up defensively. He was officially clueless; all he knew was that he had a hangover and Darren had gone barmy.

All he got for his confusion was an incredulous look. Darren shook his head slowly and released a short, bitter laugh. "You don't even remember do you? _Do you_?" He could only shake his head 'no' and Darren laughed scornfully again. "Of course you don't! How convenient!"

Erik felt a sense of dread well up in his gullet and he leaned heavily against the door frame, wracking his fogged memory. He thought he remembered something about John Players fags, but that made no sense, he never smoked them; he realized his throat hurt a bit.

"What did I do?" he asked tentatively.

"What did you do? You went fuckin' mad!" Darren yelled, throwing away a bottle of vodka. "You sexually harassed Christine, then insulted her, and then started singing and yelling in the street like a lunatic!"

Erik's blood went cold and he fell against the counter's edge, placing a hand over his heart as he stared at the floor. _No, no, no, I'd never do that._ Sexually harass? The very words made his stomach lurch in disgust. He shook his head weakly and murmured "No, I couldn't have."

The black man frowned deeply as he continued dumping bottles into the garbage. "You called her a 'cow' Erik, and only she knows what you did before I got there," he told him softly.

Erik closed his eyes tightly as his own voice filtered through his throbbing head and haunted him.

_"I wonder if you're that feisty when a bloke's got a leg over ye,"_

"No," he whispered weakly, shocked at himself.

_"I am not worthless, you stupid cow_."

He curled his fingertips into his scalp, pleading slightly for the truth to go away. _It can't be!_

_"Rex tremendae majestatus  
qui salvandos salvas gratis  
sale me, fons pietatis!"_

Erik gasped softly as the memories crashed over him in a sickening wave, and he promptly leaned over the dustbin to empty the meager contents of his stomach. _Oh fuck, you monster, you fuckin' monster!_ He raged at himself as his stomach lurched forward again. _Look what you've become!_ Suddenly there was a cool hand on his shoulder, and he choked back a sob as the contractions passed. Darren handed him a damp cloth without a word.

Standing shakily, he was hit by just how far he had fallen; he'd always drunk, but never like this. He'd just wanted to get through the coke withdrawal, but now...now he just didn't know anymore. Raising his eyes to look at his friend, still pulling down bottles. So many bottles, half-finished and then left forgotten until he went on another binge; they were all his. Darren had quit drinking over a year ago when he rediscovered his religion.

"D...I'm sorry," he muttered miserably, leaning back against the counter and wrapping his arms around his stomach.

Darren sighed slowly and turned to face him, rubbing his palm over his scalp. "I know you are Mate, but it can't go on. It just can't."

Erik nodded and reached out to grab the nearest bottle. He regarded the whiskey label and felt nothing but scorn for the liquid within; he threw the bottle into the can. "I know it can't," he said softly before turning away and leaving the kitchen.

Just as he crossed the hall, Mandi burst through the front door, eyes blazing and her uniform from Gordeep's wrinkled. She caught sight of him and came storming over. "Christine told me what you did, you fuckwit!" she spat and then slapped him roughly before turning on her heel and stalking away. Erik blinked in surprise and tasted blood from the force of the blow, but did not follow her. He walked slowly to the sofa and sat, putting his head into his hands. He was going to have to get used to being sober again.


	10. Forget The Name Of The Man's Voice

And I'm back briefly! School is killin' me dead this semester, but I did get this short update out for y'all.

As always mad props and love for my Beta and good friend, Erik.

* * *

_"...why do you condemn a man whom you have never seen, whom no one knows and about whom you yourself know nothing?"_

_-- From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux_

* * *

Being suddenly faced with total sobriety, Erik's nicotine cravings skyrocketed, and it wasn't long until he was forced to down several aspirin, pull his hair back into a half ponytail, put a ball cap on low over his eyes, and set outside to face the world.

_Stupid, fuckin' sun,_ he grumbled inwardly as he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets. _Why's it always so bright when I have a hangover?_ Scowling, he moved through the lunch crowds that blocked most of the sidewalk; _bloody pedestrians..._

The pattern ingrained in his memories, he followed his feet into the grocer's and over to the counter where the clerk was counting packs of cigs. From behind the girl had straight blonde hair, pulled into a loose bun and a full figure. Erik tilted his head a bit without thought to appreciate her generous hips a moment before coughing politely. "Excuse me Miss--oh fuck..." His faint smile collapsed as the girl turned and he recognized her sudden sneer.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" she asked acidly. She was a plain girl really, but she looked rather impressive with hateful fires burning in her eyes.

His headache flared suddenly and he closed his eyes, lifting a hand to uselessly rub his temple through the leather. Under other circumstances he would have snapped back that he had every right to be there, but now he couldn't bring himself to try and rally the effort. "I just wanted a pack of Red Apples," he muttered softly, glancing down to the counter.

---------

Christine was not pleased when she'd received a call this morning that the afternoon person couldn't work and Mr. Gordeep needed her to come in. Still, at least she'd gotten some rest after Mandi had come in at 6-am to relieve her. She'd shakily explained what had happened last night to her friend, who was horrified by it, and then gone home to go stand under a nearly scalding shower for an hour or so.

Christine still got chills thinking about it; that voice...that Goddamned haunting, sorrowful voice! She couldn't get it out of her head. Christine had fallen asleep listening to skeletal angels singing the Dies Irae.

And suddenly he was back, speaking in a soft voice behind her as if last night hadn't happened. She'd turned without thought and sneered openly at him and readied herself for another battle.

Instead, he'd grimaced and looked away, mumbling about wanting cigarettes, and her anger dissipated swiftly. He was just so baffling! Releasing a heavy breath, she shook her head and lifted a hand to brush a few flyaway hairs behind her ear. "Yeah, no problem," she replied tiredly as she turned to retrieve the cigarettes.

He paid for them without another word and turned to tuck them into his pocket with the change. As he did so, she suddenly noticed that because his hair was pulled back beneath his battered ball-cap, she could see that he had no left ear. Only terrifying scars around a small, unnatural hole. _It's all true_, she realized. She'd been shocked with Darren had told her, but the reality of it hadn't sunk in. Erik _had_ to wear that mask.

Christine fought down a flash of annoyance at how easily the man before her played with her emotions. In one breath, he was a completely unrepentant ass that she would dearly love to bitch-slap, and in the next he was kind, loyal, and hurting in such a way that she wanted to draw him into her arms. She snorted softly at herself as he left the store silently; _probably just getting ready for my period_, she thought with a faint smile as she turned back to the case behind her.

"Look, I just wanted--"

She jumped and screamed at the unexpected return of his voice, speaking hurriedly. Spinning around with her hand over her heart, she shook her head and laughed breathlessly. "Dammit they should put a bell on you!" she declared.

Erik quirked a skirt-melting half grin and tilted his head a bit, shrugging his shoulders with his hands tucked into his pockets. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said softly then sobered a bit, shifting awkwardly and lifting a hand to tug lightly on the bill of his cap. "I just wanted to apologize for yesterday."

Christine's smile faded and instinctively crossed her hands over her chest. He grimaced at her defensive motion and rested his hand on the back of his neck, glancing past her. "I know I can't make excuses for it, but I was drunk as a skunk..." he trailed off and frowned deeply. "I barely remember it m'self, but still, I'm sorry." He shrugged again and turned to leave again, shoulders tight with tension.

She was calling out before she could think about it. "Hey wait." He paused in the doorway, looking back at her expectantly. She bit her lower lip, suddenly hesitant and then hating herself for feeling that way. "Thanks," she shrugged a shoulder and glanced away fighting a blush as she watched him smile. "I'll...um...probably see you around when I'm with Mandi," she finished lamely. _Christ, I sound like some pre-teen, doe-eyed, twit._

He nodded a bit, still smiling. "I'm sure I'll turn up," he answered, his shoulders falling a bit as the tension left his frame. "I'm like bad penny."

And with that he was gone.


	11. Above The Trap Doors

Woo! Update! Woo Semester break! Woo I'm going to London!

As always, mad props/love/respect for my Beta/PR Agent/Life Coach Erik!

_

* * *

_

_"She took him to the wardrobe and property-rooms, took him all over her empire, which was artificial, but immense, covering seventeen stories from the ground-floor to the roof and inhabited by an army of subjects. She moved among them like a popular queen, encouraging them in their labors, sitting down in the workshops, giving words of advice to the workmen whose hands hesitated to cut into the rich stuffs that were to clothe heroes."_

-From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

"Welcome home, Miss."

Christine blinked out of her thoughtful daze at the warm Italian-accented voice that greeted her, and she smiled broadly. "Hello Carlotta, how are you doing?" Her voice unconsciously grew more measured and she clearly enunciated every word, just like her parents had taught her.

"_Sono molto buono_! I'm very good, Miss, graci." The joyful cook grinned and turned back to the large island in the expansive kitchen; she promptly begin slicing carrots with an almost mechanical efficiency. Christine nodded and hung her pocket book and coat on the hooks next to the garage door; stepping further into the room, she leaned against the island countertop and watched the older woman work. Her thoughts swiftly returned to the alluring masked boy and his infuriating charm.

_"Scusarme, Signorina_, but if-a you are going to just stare at the table, at least peel those potatoes, eh?" Christine looked up to see Carlotta wink at her and push the large bowl of vegetables closer to her. Smiling faintly, she took up the peeler and set to work. As she dragged the blade along the potato's surface, she couldn't help but wonder what lay beneath Erik's surface; would it be possible to peel away the gritty layers and----

"Oh for God's sake!" She shook her head furiously and threw the cleaned spud into the waiting pot with a dramatic clang.

Carlotta gasped in surprise and clutched a hand over her heart. "_Mio Dio_! What on earth has gotten into you Miss?"

She blushed deeply and glanced away muttering, "This boy..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said 'this boy'! I just sat here and compared this _stupid_ boy that has weaseled his way into my head_ to a potato_!"

Carlotta paused and simply looked at her a moment before falling into hysterical laughter, hugging her sides as her eyes teared with mirth.

Christine pouted a bit and began furiously peeling another potato as she muttered "Shuddup," softly, but the Italian cook only laughed harder until she had to support herself on the counter.

"What on earth is going on here?" Her mother's voice cut through the laughter, and both Christine and Carlotta looked up in surprise.

"Mum...what are you doing in the kitchen?" she asked curiously, potato and peeler forgotten in her hands.

Her mother noticed them though and sniffed in distaste. "Well, it is attached to _my_ house isn't it, Christine? I have every right to be here," she answered with a hint of coldness. "I came down to tell Carlotta that we're having guests for dinner. Lord and Lady Covington-Smithe are going to be joining us, along with their son, Rahld." She finally turned to address the cook in question. "Try to impress them, won't you?"

Christine gave Carlotta an apologetic look as the older woman quietly nodded and began putting the meal she had started back into the refrigerator in exchange for something more high class. Her mother's eyes returned to the offending items in her hands and narrowed slightly. "Whatever are you doing with those Christine, we _pay_ people to do that. Come along now."

She had little choice but to follow her.

Some days she wondered how it was possible for her to be actually related to the woman ahead of her. Her father was a man who took their shred of royal lineage far less seriously and enjoyed spending his time hunting or fishing with other sportsmen whose money was as old as his.

Normally it was easy to talk with her mother, you just had to do with good grammar and better posture, but now that she had finished school, her mother had turned her attention to finding her erstwhile daughter a proper husband befitting her stature. If Christine had any say in the matter, she'd have sworn off men all together and moved to a flat in the city to write and publish stories. Live the life of a proper feminist and just generally an independent woman.

"You remember Rahld, darling? He was at your fourth birthday."

She froze, she didn't remember her fourth birthday, but there had been stories of a her taking a naked romp through the garden ever since. "Oh? And how old was he, mum?"

"Seven."

Damn, there was a chance he'd remember the bloody event. She frowned lightly behind her mother's straight back; great, he was another stuffy rich boy and he had the opportunity to tease her mercilessly about her wild days as a little girl. Looking out the window in the direction of London, she wistfully wondered what Mandi was doing tonight. Naturally that led her thoughts back to Erik, and without realizing it, she fell into a rather pleasant fantasy of him taking her out to dinner at a gritty Indian place, which actually had the greatest curry in the whole city, and they'd laugh and have interesting deep conversations, revealing his more sensitive, caring nature. Then he'd take her for a walk in the park, actually listening to and valuing her opinions rather than simply looking for trophy wife to carry on the noble bloodline--

"Christine Marie Dawson, have you heard a word I've been saying?"

The terrible urge to blush came on and she shrugged sheepishly at her mother's disapproving look. "No, I'm sorry, my mind wandered."

Another distasteful sniff--her mother had never approved of what she called Christine's 'excessive and unnecessary use of her imagination'. "I was saying that you'll like Rahld, he's on his way to being a world-class tenor, and he's a member of your father's hunting club."

Christine fought the urge to roll her eyes; _lovely, he enjoys killing small animals_. This thought was promptly followed by a spiteful inner voice muttering, _Erik probably sings better_. That voice caught her by surprise, and she blinked. Where did that come from? She didn't like the direction her thoughts were taking; she couldn't possibly be developing a crush on Erik, he'd been a complete ass to her! _But he apologized... _She blinked again and frowned deeply; oh this is not good. Maybe meeting an insufferable boy would do her good, remind her why she hated men.

Lord and Lady Covington-Smithe were as boring as ever and Christine used the time to savor Carlotta's cooking; the woman was amazing in the kitchen and partly the reason why her parents were still very much in favor with the rest of the Nobs in the area.

The sole highlight was watching her father and Rahld the Elder get very excited as they relived a thrilling hunt and wound up leaping to their feet and running around the table to demonstrate the climatic end. Both wives disapproved of such behavior, while she and Rahld stifled laughter.

Rahld Covington-Smithe III was not at all like the other boys who had tried to court her. For one thing the earlier suitors were all horse-faced, pasty creatures that showed the early signs of marrying too many cousins, and Rahld was...well for lack of a better word, he was beautiful. He had striking green eyes, a perfectly masculine nose, full, symmetrical lips, and wavy brown hair that fell around his face in a layered style not unlike David Cassidy's, if a bit shorter. What with his tan and the hint of dirt beneath his fingernails, Christine couldn't help but compare him to what Adam must of looked like, or at least Tarzan after he had been civilized. In the risky lottery that is the genetic pool of the British upper class, this boy had hit the jackpot. He was also quiet, which was highly uncharacteristic of any young man who came to call on her. Where the others had tried to chew her ear off by listing their accomplishments, Rahld sat silently, looking almost as uncomfortable with the situation as she was.

And why shouldn't he be uncomfortable? He was here doing her a favor really. Rahld looked like some sort of Greek god, and Christine was, to put it mildly, unremarkable. Her features where not ugly, but there was nothing to mark her as pretty: nondescript nose, thin lips, and flat, straight blond hair framing matte grey eyes. Hell, the only things the boys remembered about her was her oversized bust! And yet, she had not seen Rahld eyeing her once the entire evening. She didn't know how she felt about that.

By the end of the night she had decided that Rahld was drop dead gorgeous, but not much else. Christine began to think that he never spoke because there simply wasn't much going on in that pretty head of his; that explained why he was being paired up with her, she was too smart for her own good. Her mother must think it was better to marry her off to a good-looking simpleton so that Christine could just control him like all _good_ wives did really.

Well, she wanted no part of it. Tomorrow she decided she'd pack a bag and spend a few days with Mandi, just to get away from the strict dance that was what remained of being nobility. Christine much preferred the chaos of Mandi's life, the freedom of it, and she'd be able to see Erik again--She blinked, then frowned lightly.

He wasn't a good man, he was trouble, she reminded herself though she knew it would do her little good at this point. _Why_, she lamented as she went to bed, _do the good girls always fall for the bad boys?_


	12. Apollo's Lyre

_Ah, I frighten you, do I? . . . I daresay . . . Perhaps you think that I have another mask, eh, and that this . . . this . . . my head is a mask? _

--From The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

Christine grunted softly as she hitched her backpack higher up on her aching shoulder, then blinked at the unladylike noise and looked around to see if anyone had heard her. Strangely, the street was almost empty and foreboding in the gloomy grey of the afternoon; she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder for the hundredth time. She suddenly wished that she'd just stayed with Mandi at the store for a few hours rather than act bold and get directions from her to get to her flat before her and start a dinner for everyone. _Had to play at being a big girl didn't we? Well, look at yourself now, wandering down a street you've never heard of with only a hope that you're going in the right way._

Out of no where a bird called out loudly, and she yelped softly in fright, holding a hand up defensively. The bird called again as she struggled to catch her breath, her eyes lifted to the naked tree that rose out of a small, walled garden. Sitting on the nearest branch sat a single magpie, staring at her; Christine rolled her eyes at herself and glared at it. "Well, what do you want?" she asked it briskly. The harlequin bird only hopped about on its perch a moment, then called again. "Oh shut-up..." she murmured to herself as she turned away and pulled her bag up again.

"That's one for sorrow ya know," the male voice made her jump suddenly and she whirled around once more to see Erik emerging from the alley next to her. His voice was muffled and neutral as he approached her, eyes downcast while he held his hands curled before his mouth, lighting a cigarette. To her mind he looked as if he'd walked right out ofsome American movie–the classic rebel. He was even dressed the part, standing there in a pair of skin-tight denim trousers that were ripped and worn across the knees and a well-used wife-beater which accented his lean, muscled frame.

He took a drag then looked up to her, holding the cig loosely between index and middle finger; Christine realized she was staring and blushed faintly, clearing her throat. "Excuse me?" She asked, remembering that he had actually spoken to her.

Erik's lips split into a half-grin at her blush, and he nodded up to the magpie above them. "Old wive's tale," he said simply. "Ye count magpies, an' the number is an omen of what's to come." Her brows furrowed a bit in thought as he lifted an arm and pointed one long finger, "That's one for sorrow." When she frowned lightly at the bird, he laughed softly and winked at her as he took another drag from his smoke. "Bad luck that."

She snorted softly at his wink, then took a step forward and adjusted her bag once more, feeling far more at ease around this new incarnation of Erik. His eyes were bright with intelligence and good humor, and while he still looked a bit pale and definitely exhausted, his entire body language radiated a calm, relaxed demeanor. Lifting a hand to indicate the tattoo encircling his arm, she lifted a brow and looked up at him, "So how many is that?"

He exhaled a lazy stream of smoke away from her direction then lifted his arm a bit, looking at the ring of birds. "S'ten for the Devil," he answered with a faint frown; she almost swore that a shadow passed over his eyes before he grinned once more and suddenly reached forward towards her. She flinched back in surprise with a gasp, then sighed out that same breath in relief when he simply took a hold of her backpack and lifted it gently from her shoulders. Erik frowned at her reaction and muttered a soft apology before turning away to start walking down the street. "The flat's this way," he called back to her.

As they walked passed the alley he'd come from, Christine glanced down and saw the figure of a scrawny man hunched over against the wall as if in pain. She realized it was the drummer from Erik's band when he looked up and sneered openly at her; curiosity reared its ugly head. "What were you doing down there?"

He paused and looked at her over his shoulder, then flicked a glance to the alley in question; once again something dark moved over his eyes before shrugging lightly and moving forward again as he replied, "Business."

Clearly this was not a matter open to further discussion, so she kept quiet as they continued walking down the empty street. In fact, she decided not to say anything at all him; her inner feministhad grown a spine once more and declared that she certainly didn't have pander to his male ego just because he was playing nice now to make it up to her for being such a complete pig. By the time they had turned into his apartment building, she had worked herself up into a fine fit of righteous anger and was ready to tear him apart at the slightest provocation. These punk boys were all the same after all, lazy disenchanted things that only saw as far as their next lay or pack of fags.

She was pulled suddenly from her feminist rampage by a strange sound. Erik was singing as they moved up the stairs, and Christine blinked as she recognized the string of high notes he was hitting before he began the chorus of "_Good-bye yellow brick road..._"

She stifled a laugh as she looked up through the stairway to the boy on the next twist of the stairs, "Are you singing Elton John?"

He froze and glanced down to her before affecting an easy shrug as he pulled his keys out to open the door. "So what if I am? Darren turned me on to him," here he paused a moment, then continued a bit more defensively with a distinctly embarrassed pull at the corner of his mouth. "He's a legitimate artist," he muttered softly, "Even if he does prance about like the Queen of the Fairies."

Christine laughed softly as she came back up to his side and then moved into the darkened flat while he held the door open. "That's perfectly ok, just never thought you'd like him is all," she shrugged lightly

He snorted lightly as he waved for her to follow him down the hall towards the bedroom, "Princess you have no idea what I like." Pressing the door open to Mandi's room, he set her bag down next to the bed then crossed his arms over his chest and faced her, tilting his head a bit with a lopsided grin. "I'll bet you just love the Bay City Rollers, don't ya sweetheart? A nice little bird like you has just got ta have their picture in yer locker."

She threw her head back and laughed loudly this time before mimicking his posture back to him with the same tilt of her head. "Princess, you have no idea what I like."

Mandi and Darren were taking the stairs a bit faster than usual as they looked worriedly back and forth between each other. "What were ye thinking, letting her come over here alone?" he was asking her for the hundredth time.

She huffed out an exasperated breath and raised a hand defensively, "I told ye before, I didn't know you were goin' ta be out today!" They shared a worried look and continued upward with a renewed burst of speed. "Maybe he just stayed in his room, nappin', ya said yerself he was still feelin' poorly..." Mandi hazarded after a few moments.

Darren frowned thoughtfully as they alighted on their penultimate floor, then glanced to his hand on the rail. "Judging from the feel of that bass, ain't no one on our level goin' ta be sleepin'." And just a few stairs higher the throbbing beats were unmistakable as they vibrated through both of their chests and the wood beneath their feet; the high end of the track just barely reaching them.

When they finally reached the door and could clearly hear Jethro Tull blasting through the flat at full volume. Mandi shot Darren a near-panicked look, "He's playing Aqua Lung! He's torturing her!"

Together they nearly fell through the door in their hurry to get in. The music in the flat was nearly tangible as they muddled through, looking around for any sign of life. She had her hands clapped over her ears and he clenched his jaw to keep the bass from rattling his teeth. _Christ_, Darren thought,_ it's like a fuckin' battlefield. Where are they?_ He caught a bit of movement in the kitchen and made his way there, Mandi following.

They stared slack-jawed at the sight before them. The kitchen was filled with steam and the smell of cooking as Christine moved through the small space expertly, her hair covered by one of Erik's red bandanas. The man himself sat happy as a lark in spring on the counter nearby, singing loudly along with the track; Darren realized they were bobbing their heads in tandem to the music.

The music came to an end moments later and blessed silence fell over the flat, and the two in the door heaved a sigh of relief in tandem. Christine spun to face them, proudly holding a spatula in one hand. Erik flashed them both a wide grin that suited him despite being in unfamiliar territory and pointed at the girl next to him with one long index finger. "She," he said decisively, "can come over any time she wants."


	13. A Masterstroke of the TrapDoor Lover

Dear lord where have I been all this time! Oh that's right, London. Woo! Ok, I'm back home for the summer, and while I'd like to say that the next chapter will be a lot longer, a lot sooner, I just can't. This beast writes itself at it's own pace. Thanks for sticking with me.

As always, mad props to my Beta/PR Agent/Bodyguard Erik, Musique et Amour. Go read his work, he's brilliant no matter what he says otherwise.

_

* * *

_

_The eyes were still there, at the foot of the bed. Were they between the bed and the window-pane or behind the pane, that is to say, on the balcony? That was what Raoul wanted to know. He also wanted to know if those eyes belonged to a human being. ...He wanted to know everything. Then, patiently, calmly, he seized his revolver and took aim. He aimed a little above the two eyes. Surely, if they were eyes and if above those two eyes there was a forehead and if Raoul was not too clumsy..._

_The shot made a terrible din amid the silence of the slumbering house. And, while footsteps came hurrying along the passages, Raoul sat up with outstretched arm, ready to fire again, if need be._

_This time, the two eyes had disappeared._

-- From "The Phantom of the Opera" by Gaston Leroux

* * *

Jules Bucket (pronounce Boo-kay) never pretended that he was anything less than what he was; a successful drug-dealer with a few good connections with The Firm, who played drums once in a while to earn some pussy on the side. For a while he considered himself to be as happy as a man in his station could be. Things began to get complicated when some of the younger gentleman of questionably legal dealings started to smell money from Carver's band and began to get 'ideas'. Bucket (Boo-kay) looked at 'ideas' with the same suspicious caution that he viewed 'opportunities'. They were slippery words used by slippery men who were, more often than not, smarter than he was, but as the weeks moved on these young slippery men kept working on him. _Think about it Jules my mate, just think about it! One hit song'll get you more money and women than a life of selling coke will._ Steadily, he'd been lured over to the idea by their pretty words about contracts and percentages, but what really sold him, what really made him invest all of his time and energy into the project was the desire, and the 'opportunity', to see that cunt Carver begging him for more charlie like a two-pound whore.

And the plan had been working so well too, so bloody well. It had been such a perfect state of denial that Carver had put himself into, that Bucket had almost begun to smell the money he would earn once he got that contract signed. Then something had changed. He wasn't sure what but the wanker had gone from a full-blown addiction to stubbornly pushing his way through withdrawal, and there seemed to be nothing Jules could do to win him back. The last time he'd tried to sell him some coke, the git had beaten the shit out of him in the alley; he'd walked by the alley again with a pudgy blond chick, and Bucket took note of what could be useful information.

------

Erik smiled to himself as he paid for the two tickets to the Globe's production of Much Ado About Nothing, thinking Christy would like it as their first 'official' date when he asked. Getting to know the girl over the past few weeks, he'd realized they had a lot more in common than just an appreciation of good music. That same night he'd walked her to the flat, keeping a civil distance after his actions in the convenience store, he'd realized that he wanted to actually go out with her when she'd overheard him muttering "Out, damn spot! Out I say!" and promptly poked her head in to reply "And here's the smell of dinner still! Oh all the dishsoaps in London will not sweeten this little plate."

They'd talked for hours from then on, and Erik had taken to walking Christy to the Bow Road Station where she'd take the Hammersmith and City line to King's Cross to catch another train home. Once, he'd gotten on the tube with her, curious why she'd taken a job so far from home.

"Yer a nob, babe, why d'ye spend yer days at Gordeep's?" he had asked.

She shrugged as she watched the blank-faces of the crowd on the opposite platform, "Well...a while ago, I asked my dad for some money ta buy a few books, and for the first time in my life he said 'Why don't you go get a job and earn the money. He was kidding, but I took him seriously and started looking around for a job; randomly I ended up getting off at Bow Road to wander a bit. I found Gordeep's with the help wanted sign in the window, and Mandi seemed real nice." She paused and turned to smile at him, "and I actually worked for my own money." Christy had laughed then, and Erik couldn't help but grin at her. "You know, it's only a little pride, but it's mine, and I don't want to give it up."

That was when he began to really respect her.

Erik tucked the tickets to the theatre into his jacket pocket as he started the short walk back to Victoria Station, enjoying the rare sunlight on the dirty old river. As he walked, he let himself roll over his feelings for Christy; he had to admit that it had been a long time since he'd actually been attracted to a person for more than just a lay. Beyond that, he was surprised at how her features and figure had begun to grow on him; she didn't have the sort of face that stopped traffic, but it grew more and more pretty every time he saw her. He loved how one side of her lips would lift first when she started to grin, and he loved how she would quirk her brow any hundred of ways to convey an emotion. Christy wasn't like the other girls he'd been with, she was real and earthy-- "genuine would be a better word. She didn't play games, she didn't try to tart herself up to impress anyone, she was just...Christy.

Before he knew it, the half-hour trip had passed in his day dream and he was walking back down along those familiar blocks. His pulse sped up in excitement as he approached the store and walked in, thoughtlessly grinning. When he stepped up next to the counter, Christy looked up from her lotto count and gave him a wide grin.

"Well, hey Erik! Gonna walk me to the station again?" She asked with--what was to him--an adorable tilt of her head.

"Yes indeed, I am," he started, then felt strangely nervous. "And I have something for ya, I hope ye like it." Erik pulled the tickets out of his pocket and offered them to her, "I was hopin' ye'd be free this Saturday for a show."

She quirked a brow curiously as she took the tickets and read them over; Erik nearly sighed in relief when she grinned hugely and threw her arms around his neck across the counter, "Erik this is brilliant, thank you! I'd love to go!"

------

"Rahld, have you found a date for Margo's gallery opening?"

Rahld looked from his book and fought the urge to roll his eyes at his mother. "No Mum, I haven't, and I don't intend to. I don't like any of the girls you want me to date, so just lay off alright?"

While his mother huffed at his answer and left the room in a flurry of indignation, his father flicked his newspaper and called from the dining table, "Why don't you invite that Christine Dawson?"

Closing his book firmly, Rahld rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, "Da..she didn't say two words to me during that whole damn dinner; why on Earth would I invite her?"

He watched a smirk play across the older man's lips, "Because your Mother thinks that Christine is not a proper young lady and not worthy of your time."

That made him perk up and he shot a mischievous grin back at his dad. "Oh yeah? Well, then she can't be all bad can she? Think I'll go call her parents..."


End file.
